The High Rocks (9 page)
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
I assured him that I hadn't, and introduced Rocking Wolf. The bounty hunter laughed shortly and spoke over his shoulder to the half-breed. “Two Sisters' nephew, Longbow,” he said. “I reckon that makes him your cousin. Ain't you going to say howdy?”
Longbow said nothing. He eyed the Indian from beneath the brim of his hat, the whites glistening against the dusky hue of his face.
A gray enamel coffee pot gurgled atop the fire behind Church. “Coffee smells good,” I said. “Mind if I have a cup?” I placed my hands on the pommel of my saddle, preparing to dismount. Church raised the gun.
“I'd rather you didn't,” he said.
I relaxed my grip on the pommel. On the other side of the fire, Junior gasped and arched his back beneath the blankets that enveloped him, cursing rapidly in a breathless voice. His father placed a gnarled hand against his chest when he tried to sit up and eased him back down. The young man's face shone with sweat in spite of the near-zero weather. There was pink froth on his lips.
I watched him until the convulsions subsided, then returned my attention to the bounty hunter. “Like to tell me what happened?”
“Not especially.”
“I'll tell you what happened.” The old man spoke without looking up. He was supporting his son's head with his right hand and massaging his chest with the left. His voice was shrill and cracked. “That injun-scalpin' bastard kilt my boy.”
“You found him?” Rocking Wolf leaned forward eagerly.
“We found him,” said Church, loosening a little. “He was gutting a buck in a stand of pine eight, ten miles east of here.” He snorted. “They told me he was big; they didn't say he was huge. His hand just about swallowed up the bowie knife he was using. We rode right up to him, got the drop on him. I told him to stand up. At first he acted like he didn't hear me. I said it again, and that's when he cut loose.
“He had a rifle inside that carcass. He fired twice, blasting a hole through the back and hitting Junior
in the belly with the first shot. There was so much blood and meat splattered over him you couldn't tell which was his and which was the deer's. The second shot went wide. I fired back and so did the breed. I think one of us hit him, because he staggered, but in the confusion he got to his horse and hightailed it east.”
in the belly with the first shot. There was so much blood and meat splattered over him you couldn't tell which was his and which was the deer's. The second shot went wide. I fired back and so did the breed. I think one of us hit him, because he staggered, but in the confusion he got to his horse and hightailed it east.”
“You didn't follow him?” I prodded.
“Hell, no. He knows this country better'n anybody. We'd of rid straight into an ambush. Longbow says he'll return to the trail on the other side of the mountain. We'll head him off from this direction after we break camp. We been riding most of the night.”
“What about young Strakey?”
“He's done for. I'd of put him out of his misery hours ago, but the old man won't let me.” He grinned spasmodically. “I care about the men I ride with.”
“Christ, that's touching.”
The mirth fled Church's face. “What's your business here, anyway? Sheriff Goodnight said you was taking a prisoner up to the capital. That him?” He flicked his gun barrel toward the Indian.
I told him about Brainard and about how I came to be riding with Rocking Wolf, including the deal I'd made with his uncle. It was surprising how little time it took to recount the story.
“I don't believe it.” This time it was Longbow who spoke. “Two Sisters hates the white man. He
wouldn't drink out of the same lake.” The way he said it left me with few illusions regarding his own sympathies in that direction.
wouldn't drink out of the same lake.” The way he said it left me with few illusions regarding his own sympathies in that direction.
“That sounds strange coming from a half-breed who claims to be his son,” I retorted.
“Son of a bitch!” he spat, and fired the Dance straight at my head. But by that time I was already moving, flinging myself sideways off the saddle just as the bullet clipped the brim of my hat. I hit the ground, rolled, and came up on the other side of my horse. Longbow drew down on me again.
“Stop.”
Rocking Wolfâ²s command, delivered in a dry monotone, made the half-breed pause. He looked up at the Indian. I did too, turning my head just enough to keep both of them in sight.
The Indian had unslung his Winchester, and now he sat with it trained squarely in the center of Ira Longbow's narrow chest. No one, not even Church, had seen him move.
“Ira, you are so damned dumb.” The bounty hunter spoke like a father who had caught his son behind the barn with his neighbor's daughter. “Put the gun away before somebody gets killed.”
“Tell that to the Indian. My business is with Murdock.” He steadied his revolver at my head. I ducked. To hell with my reputation:
“Homer.” Church pronounced the name flatly. It was answered by a metallic click from beyond the fire.
The half-breed cast a wary eye in that direction, where the old man, still crouching over his son, had slid the latter's percussion cap pistol from his belt and was pointing it at Longbow. Strakeyâ²s white-stubbled jaws worked ruminatively at a plug of tobacco the size of a crabapple.
“I don't like to get mixed up in family quarrels, Ira,” said Church, “but if you don't put that gun where it belongs, Iâ²ll have Homer splatter your brains all over this side of the mountain.”
Not too far away, a squirrel leaped down from a tree and thumped through the snow to another, stopping once to chatter angrily at the intruders in its midst. It might have been the most important thing there, the way all of us appeared to be listening to it. Finally, Longbow eased the Dance's hammer back into place and returned it to its holster with a brutal thrust.
“Good boy,” said Church. He returned his attention to Rocking Wolf. “Your turn, injun.”
The nephew of the chief of the Flathead nation didn't have to be told that two guns were better than one. Without removing his eyes from the half-breed, he uncocked the rifle and slung it back over his shoulder. His face remained impassive as ever. I exhaled, only then realizing that I'd been holding my breath.
“I just give you your life, Murdock,” said the bounty hunter. “I hope you remember that.”
“What makes you so generous?” I reached up and took hold of the chestnut's bridle, stroking its neck with the other hand to calm it down. Unarmed as I was, it seemed a good idea to keep the animal between me and the half-breed as much as possible.
Church holstered his weapon with a dime-novel flourish, proving that there's a little Henry Goodnight in all of us. “I got one rule,” he replied. “I never kill law. Not unless it gets in my way so bad I can't go around it.”
“I'd say I'm in your way right now. We're both after Bear Anderson. We can't both have him.”
“You ain't in my way. Not yet.”
“But if I should be later?”
“Like I said, I hope you remember that I give you your life once.” He shot a glance over his shoulder at Longbow, who stood glaring at us from his side of the fire. “You'd best ride. I don't know how long I can hold back the breed. If you get kilt, I'll have to kill the injun too, and I'd rather not make an enemy of the Flatheads this early in the hunt.”
“I guess that means we don't get any coffee.”
“You wouldn't appreciate it anyway. Old Man Strakey can read sign like a Blackfoot, but one thing he can't do is make coffee.”
“One warning.” I mounted the mare and looked down at him. The scarf gave his narrow face an animal cast, like a cross-eyed fox. “The Flatheads have been trying to get the drop on Anderson for fifteen years, and all they've gotten for their trouble
is the biggest burial ground in the Northwest. He didn't get his reputation by running away.”
is the biggest burial ground in the Northwest. He didn't get his reputation by running away.”
“He ain't been wounded before.”
“Ever hunt a wounded bear?”
He shrugged. “I ain't taking no more unnecessary chances. Warrant says dead or alive. I tried it one way. There ain't but one way left.”
“Good luck.” I gathered up the reins and began backing the horse down the trail. Rocking Wolf followed suit.
“Which way you headed?” called Church.
“East.”
“You're the one needs the luck.”
Once we were out of effective pistol range we turned around and headed back the way we had come. After we had gone a mile, I cast a sidelong glance at the chief's nephew. “You risked a lot back there,” I said.
“I had little to lose.” He kept his eyes on the trail.
“All the same, I suppose I should thank you. I can't think why it sticks in my throat.”
He met my gaze. “I said before that I am not yet prepared to see you die.”
Paralleling the trail left by Church and his men, we reached the point around nightfall where they had shot it out with Anderson. The buck carcass was goneâdragged, judging by the marks in the snow, into a thicker grove of trees a hundred yards to the north. In its place lay a shaggy gray hulk stretched on its side, the hole where its throat had
been now empty and black with frozen blood. Its fangs were bared in a death's-head grin. “A pack,” observed Rocking Wolf, indicating the paw-prints that overlapped each other and obliterated the tracks left by the bounty hunters' horses. “Fifty, perhaps more. They fought over the kill once and will again. By morning the sound of their further fighting will attract more wolves from the lowlands.” He scanned the snow-swept countryside as if searching for the beasts. “Tonight one of us will sleep and the other will stand guard.”
been now empty and black with frozen blood. Its fangs were bared in a death's-head grin. “A pack,” observed Rocking Wolf, indicating the paw-prints that overlapped each other and obliterated the tracks left by the bounty hunters' horses. “Fifty, perhaps more. They fought over the kill once and will again. By morning the sound of their further fighting will attract more wolves from the lowlands.” He scanned the snow-swept countryside as if searching for the beasts. “Tonight one of us will sleep and the other will stand guard.”
“Are you volunteering?”
He looked at me, reading my thoughts. “Not necessarily,” he said. “You will remember that I sleep lightly.”
The tracks of an unshod horse, a big one, led east around the base of the mountain. Rocking Wolf dismounted to inspect one of the dark spots that mottled the snow around them. They were so similar to those that had marked the bounty hunters' trail that I had paid them little attention, assuming them to have been left by young Strakey. But now I noticed that there were more of them farther on, beyond the point where the opponents had separated. They showed black in the light of the rising moon.
“He has been hit,” confirmed the Indian, standing. “Much blood has been lost. He is in trouble.”
“More than you think.” I pointed to the snow at Rocking Wolf's feet, where the track of a large wolf overlapped one of the big horse's hoofprints.
“Perhaps they have grown tired of venison.” He mounted and waved me ahead of him down the trail. “There is much moonlight. We will follow for one hour.”
I was glad of the excuse to keep moving. With no clouds for insulation, the entire range was laid bare to the elements, rendering useless our heavy clothing and making the snow squeak beneath our horses' footsteps. I rubbed my face at intervals with my gloves to keep the blood circulating, but as soon as I stopped the numbness would creep back in and I'd be forced to do it again. After a while my arms felt like lead. I kept at it, however, driven on by a boyhood memory of a trapper I had once seen in Doc Bernstein's office, a young man who had been found unconscious in the snow on the outskirts of Staghorn. His face had split from exposure and had begun to ooze blood and raw meat through the cracks. It must have been as painful as it looked, because that night he had made his way to his gun and put a bullet through his brain. I rubbed until the skin felt raw and then I went on rubbing.
The trail led down a steep slope on the windward side of the mountain, an irregular incline swept by the wind in some places to bare rock interrupted in the middle by a crevice some twelve feet wide.
“Devil's Crack,” I told Rocking Wolf, once we'd stopped to view it from a distance of fifty yards. “Two miles long and a hundred feet deep at its
shallowest point. We'd save several hours if we jumped it.”
shallowest point. We'd save several hours if we jumped it.”
“And if we did not make it across?”
“Then I guess we'd save the rest of our lives.”
He grunted distrustfully, but a quick glance around seemed to assure him that there was no place nearby to set up an ambush, so he gathered up his reins and, slapping his stallion smartly on the rump, took off down the slope at a gallop. I did the same, but there was no way the mare could hope to catch up to an animal at least six years her junior, and that was why we were several lengths behind Rocking Wolf when I spotted the thong.
It had originally been covered with snow, but the wind, its gusts confined to this side of the mountain, had exposed a two-foot length to glisten wetly in the light of the moon where it had been made fast to an upended tooth of shale. It was taut as a guitar string and raised about a foot and a half above the ground.
I shouted a warning to the Indian and drew back on the reins so hard the chestnut reared onto its haunches and slid on its rump for twenty feet before coming to a stop. I was pitched off and had to grab the thong in both hands to keep from sliding over the edge. I stopped with my boots dangling in mid-air. But it was too late for Rocking Wolf. His horse hit the thong, screamed, and pitched forward onto its chest with an impact that shook the mountain. For a frozen moment, Indian and horse were a
tangle of arms and flailing legs, fighting for traction on the icy rock. Then they sailed over the edge of the crevice and into space. The stallion's screams echoed off the walls for an impossible length of time, then ceased abruptly. The wind whistled irreverently in the silence that followed.
tangle of arms and flailing legs, fighting for traction on the icy rock. Then they sailed over the edge of the crevice and into space. The stallion's screams echoed off the walls for an impossible length of time, then ceased abruptly. The wind whistled irreverently in the silence that followed.
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